


upon reflection of the times and victims

by Rosse



Category: Naruto
Genre: Character Death, Drabble, Experimental Style, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosse/pseuds/Rosse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who was the first person? Do you even remember him?"</p>
<p>Jiraiya, Orochimaru, three stages of life, and two ever repeating conversations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	upon reflection of the times and victims

**( Who was the first person? Do you even remember him? )**

Nights in Wind Country are too cold, too dry. They haven't seen water in days and the water jutsu he uses to refill their canteens isn't enough to wash away the blood that dries in his hair, smelling dull and metallic. He hates this place, he hates the smell that clings to him like the grains of desert sand coat his jounin vest and cake in the soles of his sandals. He whips up a genjutsu to hide the blaze of their fire against the black sky - clear, cloudless, perfect and endless; the only redeeming feature of this damnable desert they've been travelling in for what feels like forever.

Tension wraps tight around the two of them, Jiraiya's muscles too hard and ready for combat even now and he pulls out a scroll in an attempt to avoid watching the way his partner's jaw clenches and his eyes focus solidly on the fire, refusing to pay attention to Orochimaru. The script of the author is horrendous and Orochimaru strains his eyes trying to figure out if the introduction is talking about defence or nursing because the kanji are naught but smears half the time. He huffs in frustration when the low light of a waning crescent moon and a flickering fire prove to do nothing for his studies and Jiraiya finally speaks.

_Do you remember?_

**( Of course I do. )**

Orochimaru blinks and Jiraiya doesn't look at him, talks to the fire instead. Unwanted memories tweak at his consciousness; old, unbidden recollections and he has to close his eyes and concentrate on his breath. It would not do to react too much; it would be weak, show too much and _Jiraiya_ of all people cannot know that there are weaknesses in his psyche. He cannot let Jiraiya know, cannot allow him beyond a carefully crafted smirking facade and the easy dissociation he long ago mastered to dispose of bodies and enemies. Jiraiya already comes too close to the cracks, and he keepsleavingdammit--

_Yes._

Jiraiya looks and Orochimaru does not reveal anything in his face, finally grateful for the low light that ruins his reading. It makes it easier to turn a neutral expression - one long practiced and worn - into something that seems malevolent. Something that seems inhuman, demonic. Something that Orochimaru adores because he is a shinobi and they should not show emotion, not show weakness. Even to a--

**( What were they like? Did you ever know their name? )**

_Who was it, then?_

The blood in his hair smells so much fresher, all of a sudden, and when he inhales and considers his answer, bleach and medicine mingle over it until the world in front of him is white and Jiraiya is no longer there. Wind Country turns into sterile hospital rooms and the crackling fire becomes the steady pulse of monitoring devices hooked up to too-pale bodies wrapped in thin sheets and pierced by thousands of tubes and needles.

He turns his face away from Jiraiya, and the shadow of his teammate becomes some anonymous medic nin he doesn't remember, armed with papers and files and official forms he'll have to sign before anything is done.

**( Yes, I did. )**

Are you sure you want to do this? Sarutobi-sensei's voice echoes in his mind as loudly as it had in the room and Orochimaru just shrugs, a soft movement that barely rustles his clothing. The monitors are all too loud when the medic-nin sucks in breath and Sarutobi's hand clasps his shoulder, cold and firm and he doesn't think about the way his own hand wraps around that shoulder when he turns to Jiraiya and the monitors bleep out of existence and back into the recesses of his memory.

_My parents._

He smirks, because he cannot do anything else when Jiraiya sucks in breath with the same whistle of fear that the medic-nin did all those years ago. He cannot do anything else when two words break the light that always, always flares in Jiraiya's eyes - the fire and passion, determination to do it all - and he sees the flicker of shock that Jiraiya cannot hide.

_Why did you do it?_

_... They were already dead. I just signed the papers. ___

__He kept leaving._ _

__Orochimaru kept falling_ _

__and years later Jiraiya would ask again;_ _

__**( Why did you do it?** _ _

__**They were already dead. I just wanted them to be useful. )** _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have a self-imposed challenge to think up the most horrific non-mission ways Orochimaru's parents died. Between this and "till my breath runs out;", yeah... I'd be sorry, but he's a dick.


End file.
